


The Great Fire of Rome

by Enna_Spooky_Trash



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 years of Guilt but Not One Speck of Communication Skills, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale blames himself for the persecutions, Aziraphale is Sentenced to Die in Nero's Circus, Aziraphale is whipped, Canon Compliant, Crowley blames himself for getting his angel whipped, Crowley is a Roman Senator, Heaven being assholes per usual, Heaven blames him too, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Set in 64 AD Rome, Whipping, Whump, bec they deserve it yeet, because you know.... heavenly duties, fluff at the end, is it really a Good Omens fanfic if it isn't mutual pining?, just have to post the chapters :D, pre-written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enna_Spooky_Trash/pseuds/Enna_Spooky_Trash
Summary: Crowley had never seen him this rumpled, this forlorn… this…disheveled. No elegantly draped, pure-white togas. Nor singular golden pins. Like all those with him he wears the loose, unbelted tunic that exposed the bruises on his shoulders and chest. Another one, a contusion of red and purple, blossoms from his left cheek. He had schooled his expression into that of forced bravery, chained wrists brought together in what seemed like a meek stance of prayer. But Crowley is familiar of his angel’s eyes, and even in the distance he sees the glazed, terrified look in them.Crowley is a demon. He preys on fear, on discord, was the awful, all-consuming dread that chokes throats and renders the lungs useless.He’d never thought it’d choke him, instead.A.K.A. Crowley and Aziraphale deal with the Neronian persecutions in Rome, 64 AD.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The Great Fire of Rome

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The beauty of having two Immortals pine for each other for 6,000 years is that they go through a lot of history together. And when I say they’ve gone through a lot, I mean it. 
> 
> A little bit of background: The Neronian Persecutions started right after The Great Fire of Rome in 64 AD, when a blaze burned almost two-thirds of it to the ground. To divert the attention of the people (as rumors were starting to spread that he was responsible for the blaze in the first place), Nero pinned the blame onto the Early Christians, and started a series of games, wherein the captured victims get thrown in his Circus, usually to be devoured or mauled by wild beasts. Because this is ROME... well. It gets pretty grisly. 
> 
> Disclaimer: While I’ve done my best to do painstaking research, I’ve also taken a LOT of creative liberty when writing this fic, so yeah. Also trigger warning for violence especially for whipping, public executions, getting mauled/attacked by wild beasts and the like. Please take care of yourselves. Early Christian period was a rough time, guys. Also, research notes at the end! :DD

It started with a fire.

It should not have been that surprising, really. Demons had always been very partial to fire. To smoke, and flame, and dust, and ash. That’s kind of their whole thing, their bread and butter. So, say if a demon were to crave for a little change in home decoration in exchange for some kind of sulfuric familiarity, most of his adversaries would probably have said: _That charming, wily Serpent! We ought to have seen this coming!_

And honestly, Crowley wouldn’t blame them. As the over-moneyed, churlish patrician named Corvus, Senator and close adviser to His Most August Nero, Emperor of the Eternal City, Crowley was in a position that even Hastur, Duke of Hell, would have coveted for. He had already earned a commendation from Downstairs with his ‘great work with Caligula’, whatever the _fuck_ in hell’s Pandemonium _that_ meant, because if Crowley would ever be asked what Caligula was like, the word _great_ would probably be the kindest (and Satan, _he does not do kind_ ), most generous thing Crowley could say about him. His reign had only been for about four short years, but Crowley had to be eternally drunk just to get through the entirety of it.

So hissing into Nero’s ears, tempting him to set fire to the city? Just a bit of fun, Crowley told himself. A little bit of palace-building is all; clearing away the old and the crumbling. _That was it._

4,000 years. He’d thought, after living with mankind for almost 4,000 years, that he has learned a thing or two. He hasn’t.

“Enjoying the show, Senator Corvus?”

Crowley closes his eyes and curses at whatever god that had apparently decided he needed some company in this blasted travesty of a spectacle rather than find brand new ways to get completely and utterly wasted while fulfilling his court duties. Then he plasters on the widest, phoniest smile that he can ever manage, one that every Roman Senator seems to have a preference for, before whipping around and raising his goblet to the newcomer.

“ _Ssseleucus_!” Crowley says, which sounds way too bright to even have a modicum of genuineness in it (not that he’s ever _done_ anything genuine, mind, but still). Crowley drains his goblet in one go and gives the man an impish grin. “So nice of you to join me!”

Seleucus does not look impressed. Behind him the jostling crowd settles onto the tiered seats, the rays of Mediterranean sun beating down on the structure’s awnings as it climbs into its zenith. The platform Crowley had been ushered into-- decorated with banners of richly woven fabric emblazoned with the Crest of the Eagle-- was well into the first floors of the Circus, and only a short distance away from the equally, if not more luxuriously outfitted, Emperor’s Box. From Crowley’s seat he had a perfect view of the length of the sandy tracks below, where chariots used to tread during lavish races. The balmy air had a sickeningly sweet scent to it, one of rotten fruit and flies on honey, though Crowley is sure that that would change soon enough.

Yup. Would feel like home in no time.

Seleucus takes a seat beside him and gestures for his cupbearer. Then he turns back to Crowley. “I must admit, Senator, that I did not think you had the… er… _penchant_... for these sorts of things.”

Crowley’s slit, amber eyes blink behind his glasses. “ _Penchan_ t?”

“It’s just that I haven’t exactly seen you during public spectacles, is all. Perhaps it wasn’t to your taste?” Seleucus takes a sip from the cup and smacks his lips appreciatively, and Crowley is forcibly reminded of another person who does exactly the same thing. The savoring of crushed grapes and fermented alcohol. The smattering of lips and tongue.

It’s been 23 years since Crowley’s last seen him, now that he’s thought of it…

He pulls himself together and shrugs in nonchalance. “I… ngh, well, you know, just had earlier commitments to take care off. Saw them off, not much of a choice, really…”

The truth is Crowley _does_ go on official business trips whenever Nero schedules any one of his games. A quick nip to Hell here. Passing some sort of intel to Beelzebub there. But Nero is a volatile man— a mad, raging boar that is both unpredictable and explosive. Crowley doubted he was going to get away with passing up on spectacle-entertainment any longer, especially since he had a hand in the building of the Circus in the first place.

And besides. If he was an entity of pure malice and evil, he ought to have got in on the fun ages ago, right?

But he could not tell that to power-hungry Seleucus, who put a servant girl on the scourge for rejecting his advances. A Senator who would not mind throwing another to the wild beasts just to ascend to a coveted position. And though Crowley would very much like some kind of quick, poor-soul outlet whom he can torment with visions of hellfire, he did not want to jeopardize his position. Nor did he want to catch the attention of The Enemy. Beelzebub had told him that the Other Side had been more agitated, more restless in the last few decades. Scrambling around to fix the mess of policy decisions that was Jesus, he suspects.

So instead Crowley points at the far end of the arena, by its starting gate. “Look at _that._ Lovely bovine, _very sharp…_ horns. Big fan, _that._ ”

“You mean _The Desecration of Dirce*_ reenactment?” Seleucus looks mildly surprised, though he gazes at the wild bull that was being wreathed with flowers all the same. “Mm. Yes, well, I suppose so. Too unrefined for my taste, I think, but it does have its merits.” There is a manic gleam in Seleucus’ eyes that a damned-thing like Crowley could easily decipher.

On what merits he had been talking about, however, need not to be discussed any further, because right then an excited kind of murmur, dull and buzzing, rises from the masses. And then, suddenly, wild cheering. The military tribune marches in through the _carceres**,_ dragging along a young girl in a coarse, unbelted tunic. She might have sweet, sleek curls once, if they are not unpinned and filthy with grime. She is a maiden, barely at the cusp of adulthood. Jeers and catcalls come from the mobs, just as the tribune reads her charges.

_Those who follow a new and malefic superstition of Christus… Instigator of the Great Fire… Refusal to Offer Sacrifices to the Emperor’s Godhead…_

_Damnatio ad bestias,_ the tribune read. Condemnation to the beasts.

When the soldiers pull her to the snorting bull, she begins screaming. And when the soldiers tie her arms and limbs to cords attached to the bull’s horns, she begins weeping and begging for mercy.

The crowds have not abated. They begin hooting instead, shrieking almost gleefully. The palpable, nauseating smell of their bloodlust makes Crowley choke at its intoxication.

When the bull is let loose and the audiences roar their approval, Crowley discards the goblet all-together and downs the whole jug.

* * *

Another two jugs drained.

If Seleucus or his cupbearer had noticed that the goblet from which Crowley constantly drinks from hadn’t had a need to be refilled in about two hours or so, then they didn’t bring it up, too invested were they at the spectacle down below: gladiators hunting down sobbing prisoners (as far as he could tell their only sins are practicing Christ’s teachings) for sport, and running them down with their blades. The air smells vaguely of copper and piss, of pouring red and fresh carcass. By the time they had moved on to another set of executions, Crowley figures that he’s finally drunk enough to allow his thoughts to wander towards uncharted waters.

Like the River Aziraphale, for example.

He finds himself doing it, Crowley had discovered moodily, time and time again. Wondering where he was, how he was doing. Ever since the Garden of Eden Crowley had felt a sort of… well. It wasn’t really attachment, was it, when even until now he’s undermining whatever the angel’s progress might have been for His Side. So, intrigue, perhaps. Amusement. A good bit of ribbing and teasing, always on the angel’s expense. It’s almost hard not to, what with his belief of the Ineffable Plan. Of the Good Side. Crowley, in his drunken haze, can clearly see his angel now, and he snorts into his mead, because it was too easy to picture him: his stubborn lock of jaw. His ridiculously endearing wisps and curls on his head. Wideset, gentle eyes that would look anywhere but his snake ones. Determinedly turning down Temptation. (But one time, two decades ago, his angel did the tempting himself, rambling on excitedly about oysters, and his eyes – Crowley just noticed – his eyes crinkle nicely whenever he smiles wide. Crowley quite likes it, the crinkling. Resolved to see it sooner than he should’ve had any right to.)

_What would he say… What would he say about this?_

Ah, but he knows what the River would say, didn’t he? Aziraphale has said it before, since time immemorial. Something about Sides, perhaps. Doing the right thing. Abominable. _Out of the question._ Being a demon.

Ngk.

He sits a bit straighter. If he was going to be a proper demon, might as well stop stalling and enjoy the privileges that come with it (which, he realizes, as he looks at all the other officials and dignitaries in viewing platforms like his, drinking wine and exchanging pleasantries as if the current bloodbath below them was nothing but a good game of discus, was quite a lot.)

Seleucus stops his hollering to smirk at him. “Ah, good,” he says, pointing at the _carceres_ yet again. “You would enjoy this, I think, Senator. None of that dainty _Dirce_ business. A _proper_ condemnation of the beasts.”

Rome and her beasts. Crude and grisly, if not effective. Crowley lets his eyes travel lazily towards the starting gate yet again, another cup of mead halfway through his lips.

It soaks the front of his tunic instead.

_What in the nine circles of hell—?_

Seleucus must have made a remark about the spilt liquor, because he is staring at Crowley rather quizzically, but Crowley paid no heed. He feels the blood of his corporation freeze and shatter like ice over and over again. He has not even noticed that he had stood up, and that he is clenching his fists onto the viewing platform’s railing so much so that it would have been crushed if his true form was unleashed.

For a band of prisoners had just been shoved to the arena, stumbling and looking more than a little worse for wear. A gaggle of men, women and children; another addition to heaven’s martyr ledgers, he would have thought. But no, there’s another one among them, neither human nor beast. Crowley had never seen him this rumpled, this forlorn… this… _disheveled._ No elegantly draped, pure-white togas. Nor singular golden pins. Like all those with him he wears the loose, unbelted tunic that exposed the bruises on his shoulders and chest. Another one, a contusion of red and purple, blossoms from his left cheek. He had schooled his expression into that of forced bravery, chained wrists brought together in what seemed like a meek stance of prayer. But Crowley is familiar with his angel’s eyes, and even in the distance he sees the glazed, terrified look in them.

_Aziraphale…_

Crowley is a demon. He preys on fear, on discord, was the awful, all-consuming dread that chokes throats and renders lungs useless.

He’d never thought it’d choke him, instead.

**Author's Note:**

> * I don't think anyone calls that re-enactment as the Desecration of Dirce. But I needed a chilling name for that very real spectacle so... yeah.  The Christian Dirce is a real thing, too .
> 
> **carceres means starting gate 
> 
> This was initially going to be a one-shot but then I figured that I had a clear idea of where this story was going to go, and I could clearly divide it into three distinct chapters, so I did. Don't worry, tho! I did this instead of doing my statistics assignment, so this is completely pre-written, and an update will be coming tomorrow or Sunday! :D
> 
> Anyway, leave some kudos/comments if you enjoyed the fic! I always love reading those! :3


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